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Once there was a little bird, with the prettiest feathers anyone had ever seen. They were bright like the sun and glittered like the stars. This little bird had a nest, lined with cloud down and dream fluff, made of the strongest sticks she could find. And in this nest, the little bird had a clutch of eggs of a most brilliant color. Which one day would hatch into baby birds just like herself. And those baby birds would have the prettiest feathers anyone had ever seen, just like the little bird.
One day, a great big gust of wind blew the little bird and her eggs from their comfortable nest. She rumbled and tumbled, carried by the winds far far away from her tree. When the little bird landed with her eggs at last, they were sitting in the middle of a great big empty field of sand, dry as bone and without any color.
“Oh dear,” said the little bird. “This is such a terrible place we’ve ended up. There could be so many dangers here. Anything could happen to my little eggs in a place like this. And I can’t carry them back to our lovely tree. This won’t do at all!”
And so, the little bird quickly went hard at work.
First, the little bird realized that her eggs would need a new nest. She flew far and wide, searching for new twigs to built her nest with. But in the middle of the great big empty field of sand, there wasn’t a stick or twig or even a leaf to be found. So, instead, the little bird put her beak to her own wings, and plucked a few her sturdy, beautiful feathers from herself. With her prettyy feathers, she was able to make her eggs a nest as strong as iron and soft as silk.
Her eggs felt sad, knowing their mother plucked her own pretty feathers for them. But the little bird touched her beak to each one and said to them,
“That is what my feathers are for, my little eggs. To keep you all safe and warm. So that when you one day hatch, I can see your feathers glitter as bright and pretty as mine.”
The little bird came to realize that other creatures lived in the sand plain. Strange beasts she had never seen before. Things with scales and fur and not a feather to be found. Any day, she worried, something might slip into her nest in the night, and snatch up each one of her precious eggs. So, the little bird put her beak to her own wings, and plucked a few more of her sturdy, beautiful feathers from herself. With her pretty feathers, she was able to build a great strong wall all around her nest. Nothing could get past it, and she was certain it would keep her eggs safe no matter the beast.
Her eggs felt sad, knowing their mother plucked her own pretty feathers for them. But the little bird touched her beak to each one and said to them,
“That is what my feathers are for, my little eggs. To keep you all safe and warm. So that when you one day hatch, I can see your feathers glitter as bright and pretty as mine.”
In the great sand field, the sun and stars seemed extra bright and harsh. Like they were entirely different from the ones her wings were so much like in this strange new place. It worried the little bird, that the light from this strange sun might cook her eggs where they rested, or that the stars that blinked and winked like the eyes of great monsters would scare her little eggs and make them feel watched. So, the little bird put her beak to her own wings, and plucked a few more of her sturdy, beautiful feathers from herself. With her pretty feathers, she was able to make a thick, soft blanket to rest over her eggs. It would warm them in the cold and cool them in the heat, and not a single thing would spook them from above.
By now, the little bird’s feathers were all but bare. She had plucked so many from her wings that even if she wanted to go, she could fly no longer.
Her eggs felt sad, knowing their mother plucked her own pretty feathers for them. But the little bird touched her beak to each one and said to them,
“That is what my feathers are for, my little eggs. To keep you all safe and warm. So that when you one day hatch, I can see your feathers glitter as bright and pretty as mine.”
And so, the little bird tended to her nest, turning her eggs and keeping them warm. Only leaving them to find food, and never for long.
The little eggs, however, could be just as clever as their mother. And some of them grew tired of only knowing their nest.
And from their tiredness, some began to grow naughty.
One of the eggs, tired of being the same as its siblings, decided it wanted to change its shape. So it began to move its shape around. Its shell became spiked on one side and flat on another. The little bird began to worry, because she knew that if she tried to sit on her nest with the egg’s shell all spiky, she would hurt herself.
“Little egg,” the little bird pleaded with her most gentle little voice. “Please stop that changing and go back to how you were. It will hurt me if you change like that.”
“But this,” whined the little egg, “is such a better way to be! I won’t go back! I won’t!”
It broke the little bird’s heart, to see her little egg so unhappy with her. But if it would not change, she could not make it. So, with a heavy heart, the little bird nudged her spiky egg with her beak. Rolling it away from her feather blanket, away from her feather nest, and away through her feather wall and into the wild sands.
“I’m sorry, my little egg,” the little bird cried with a heavy heart. “But if you cannot be like your siblings, I cannot take care of you all! I must make sure your siblings hatch, even if you cannot!”
Another day, while the little bird was out searching for food, another of her eggs began to grow naughty again.
One of the eggs, tired of being the same as its siblings, decided it wanted to change its color. So it began to pick different hues. It took on reds and blues, greens and oranges, purples and yellows. When the little bird returned, it looked nothing like how it once had.
“Oh! Little egg,” the little bird cried with her most gentle little voice. “My little egg has vanished. There is only this strange rock in its place now! For all my nest and walls and blanket, one of my little eggs has been stolen away and replaced with this rock! I must be rid of it, I can’t bear to look at it a second longer!”
The colorful little egg tried to cry out, to tell its mother that it was still her egg. But the little bird was so saddened that she could not hear it. So, with a heavy heart, the little bird nudged her colorful egg with her beak. Rolling it away from her feather blanket, away from her feather nest, and away through her feather wall and into the wild sands.
Then, one day, while the little bird was away looking for food, a monster found her nest. Against all the odds, it slipped past her feather wall, into her feather nest, and under her feather blanket.
“Ah, such a comfy nest this is,” the little monster giggled as it snuggled all cozy beside the little eggs. “I shall have warmth from the little bird, and I can eat these fine eggs whenever I please. It’s a truly dreamy place.”
The mother bird returned with a full belly, and when she pulled back her feather blanket, she was filled with anger. She knew from a single glance that this monster was not one of her eggs.
“Evil creature,” the little bird yelled with her most gentle little voice. “How dare you sneak into my nest! Among my eggs! If you think you can trick me, you are mistaken!”
And so, with great anger in her heart, the little bird tossed the monster from her nest with her beak. She rolled it far out into the sands until she found a rock, where she furiously bashed it against the rock until it was dead.
The little bird, happy now that her anger was sated, returned to her feather nest with her feather blanket behind her feather wall, and settled down on top of her little eggs once more with a perfectly happy heart.
This is what her feathers were for, after all. To keep them all safe and warm. So that when they one day hatched, she could see their feathers glitter as bright and pretty and as hers.
--
“And that is the end of the story.”
The book was shut with a soft “clap” as the hard covers met around the thick layer of paper. A little figure shifted under the blankets, warily watching the woman who had been reading it to him.
“Um… Did the eggs ever hatch?” Ayin asked softly, his mouth buried under his covers. “Did the little bird ever get to see their feathers?”
“Don’t mumble, Ayin,” Yesh chided without looking up. “And the book ends there, so it’s intentionally left ambiguous by the story’s writer as to whether or not they do. Typically such endings entreat the reader to use their imagination to assume the proper conclusion to the story. Rather lazy, in my opinion, but as this is a children’s book, it’s likely intentionally written that way to encourage the reading child to analyze the themes on their own and come to individual conclusions on the bird and her brood’s eventual fate. Some children require the extra stimulation for brain development, I suppose.” Yesh looked up from the book now, fixing Ayin in her gaze so sharply that he shrank back even while he didn’t dare look away from the eyes his own mirrored so closely. “Well, if you’re so curious about endings, I suppose I may as well ask. What do you believe will be the fate of the bird and eggs?”
“… I…” Ayin mumbled into the blanket, but then quickly pulled his mouth from under it to speak clearly, and not give reason to be scolded again. “I think… that the rest of the eggs will hatch like the little bird wanted. And since the little bird used so many of her feathers to protect them, the baby birds can give her some of their feathers. So that they can all fly back to their tree together.”
Yesh’s upper lashed shifted down ever so slightly, in a way that made Ayin twitch as it made her eyes ever so slightly narrower.
“Is that what you think?” Yesh didn’t appear upset, exactly. More that the answer was so unlike what she wanted to hear that she didn’t want to dignify it with a response. She let out a short, audible breath through her nose. “Well, I suppose you are only a child after all. And often these types of stories are far more about allegory that children aren’t equipped to understand until they’re older. But by that point, they’ll be too old for such drivel regardless. I detest that sort of roundabout waste of time.”
Yesh stood from her seat, holding the book to her chest.
“Healthy birds grow back their wings, so the bird will likely be able to fly again on her own in time unless she needs to pluck her feathers for more building material, as nonsensical as that already is. Birds aren’t known for having a sense of architecture as humans understand it. But I suppose if we must speak in terms of the story’s internal logic, the most proper thing would be for the birds to understand the sacrifices made by their mother, and take care of their feathers since that’s clearly the trait she hatched them to display. And, of course, express their gratitude by ensuring that she is comfortable and satisfied by the lives she worked hard to give them. It’s only respectful.”
Ayin lay back in his bed, face somber and eyes thoughtful as he clutched at his blanket. Meanwhile, Yesh moved towards the door, and placed her hand on the wall beside the light switch.
“I can see why this sort of nonsense appeals to your father. However, I’ll be speaking to him about getting you some more properly logical books with vocabulary more suited to your development. I took time out of my schedule for you tonight for this, but do not make this an expectation. I would say that if you wanted to ensure you have a story before bed, you should encourage your father not to go getting himself drunk before your bedtime like he has tonight. But, given the unlikelihood of that man denying himself his vices even for you, I would recommend learning to satisfy yourself with reading alone instead.” Yesh flicked the lights off, leaving Ayin in dark room with only the light from the hall still leaving a rectangle of illumination on him. Now go to sleep. Ten hours of rest for a child your age is the most ideal, even if you don’t have school tomorrow. Goodnight, Ayin.”
Then the door was closed, and both the light and Yesh were gone.
“… Goodnight, mother.”
Ayin sighed softly to himself, then curled himself onto his side and burrowed himself into his blankets.
He liked the stories better when his dad read to him. Even if his dad’s speech wasn’t as clear as his mother’s, he had a nice voice for telling stories. Even when they weren’t the ones from books.
He tried to remember those ones as he drifted off to sleep. The ones with cool dark nights, and gentle blue stars whose light cast the way for royalty and soldiers to talk of sheep and flowers.